Nomos
by nuncscioquitsitamor
Summary: (Sorry dear readers; this fic is on hold for now. Thank you for your patience.) AU. Hermione, now widowed, awakes to find herself in the reluctant company of Severus, whom she thought died at the hand of Voldemort. Reviews welcome.
1. Nocturne

**Disclaimer: This is, if you haven't noticed, going to at some point evolve into a SS/HG ship. If you are not comfortable with that, you are welcome to leave. If you are going to complain about the ship, why in heaven and hell would you click on a ship you don't like? Oh, and another thing: this takes place in a bit of an AU. You'll see how it develops. Thank you very much, and do enjoy.**

Nomos

Staring in the old mirror, in the old house, her hair is longer now, longer than ever. Her cheekbones are sharp, and on them draped her once glowing skin; the only pink hue on her face is due to the chill of winter, not from health. There are hints of what once was; her freckles have not slipped off, her eyes are still a hot flash of amber. Under her mess of long hair, collarbones slice into her frame, threatening malnourishment. Looking further down, her stomach was not yet showing. Too soon, _too soon_.

He left her that, that _thing_ inside her, a wedding ring, and bubbling rage at his absence.  
Nothing more.

Seven years since the war. Seven years since the end, since the raging tides of loss. Remus, Tonks, Fred…Checking over his black suit, which he would rather not be wearing, he shrugged his shoulders, trying to find some form of comfortable posture. "Ginny, how do I-"  
"Smart, you look smart," the redheaded young woman, who had been silently crying, said, from the edge of the bed. Her outfit, also black, was of a solemn quarter-sleeved dress. "We're going to be late, if you keep fiddling with your jacket like that," she observed, nearly whispering. Harry took his face into his hands, rubbing hard across his brow.

.

_Ronald Bilius Weasley, affectionately known as Ron, leaves behind his beloved wife, Hermione Jean Granger, as well as his parents, five siblings, and many loyal and admiring friends. His death was premature; services will be…_

Abruptly folding the article, as a clock chimed, Severus took up a flask of blood-replenishing potion, as well as essence of dittany, which twice daily he endures. Reaching up, he fingers the black silk scarf, and under it a thick bandage. His wound still healing, after all these years, does not allow him the freedom of being far from his dark Spinner's End home. Clinging to his schedule, Severus arose to take his after-potion walk, to keep active and to easily digest his high in-take of medicinals.

As he walked down the street from his residence, he could not help himself from ruminating on the newly widowed Weasley wife. The last he'd seen of either Potter or Granger had been the gruesome night of his almost-death. Both their eyes, still innocent and wide as children's, looking at him, melting with fear, looking into his wounded neck…What did they think of his memories? Did they even bother to look at them? Perhaps they resent him even more so, now. Surely no one mourned the loss of him. _Better off playing dead_, he thought stubbornly.

.

Sitting at a pub in Godric's Hollow, per the suggestion of Harry and Ginny, Hermione and the remaining Weasleys sat, hushed and cramped. No one looked at another, after Ron's service. "It seems peculiar that we should be drinking, after having watched him drink himself to the beyond," Hermione choked, not daring to let a tear fall into her butterbeer. Arthur Weasley and Ginny, both sitting directly across from Hermione, looked up. "He got carried away. He didn't mean for this; he didn't want to leave you or us-"  
"He didn't _mean_ for this?" Hermione agitatedly quipped at Ginny, "We all miss Fred, but how did he let himself drown in misery? How could he be so _selfish-_" Hermione spat out the words, as Harry took gentle hold of her arms and coaxed her out of her chair. Outside, in the fresh evening air, Hermione refused to look at Harry. She didn't want to be harsh to one of her oldest and dearest friends, but she feared that looking at Harry's endearing and supportive face would destroy all her interior walls, and she would collapse into such a despair that she would die, too.

"Ginny and I have a room made up for you, if you'd like," Harry gently stated into the darkness.  
"That's thoughtful, it really is. I just can't-"  
"Hermione-"  
"I _can't_, Harry. Alright? I-"  
"Hermione, please. You're not watching over yourself. _Look at you-_"  
"I'm perfectly capable of feeding and showering, Harry, I've done it for years," Hermione said sorely.  
"You know exactly what I mean. As my best friend and sister-in-law, Hermione…I can't lose you, too," Harry sighed.  
Shaking her head and biting her bottom lip, Hermione choked out, "I-I'll take care of myself."  
Harry leaned in to hug Hermione; she shrugged away. "Please, I don't want to be touched right now. I'm sorry-"  
"No, no, I get it," Harry studied Hermione's face, "if you need anything-"  
"Yes, thank you, Harry," Hermione said, still not looking at her best friend and confidante.  
"Is there something else, besides Ron?"  
"No, no no no," Hermione said, nearly letting out a tired laugh, "I'm tired. All this business is just…Too much. I think I'll take off early, if you wouldn't mind letting everyone know?"  
"Of course," Harry agreed.  
"Harry, I do love you as a brother and a friend. Please know that," Hermione whispered, finally looking in the general direction of Harry.

.

Hermione did not have a precise assessment of how long she'd been in bed, at home, or when last she'd eaten. She did know, however, that Ron had borrowed several books on Auror history from a work colleague in Spinner's End, and he had needed to return them by today, or yesterday, or tomorrow. Either way, Hermione forced herself up and out of the house, books in hand.

It was a particularly brisk and active January, with a foot or more of snow consistently on the ground, and a freezing breeze. Wrapping the lower half of her face in a thick burgundy scarf, Hermione trudged down the street, toward a Muggle metro stop. Exhausted, and having had no appetite for several days, Hermione was too worn to summon the focus for an apparition. By the time Hermione found herself at Ron's colleague's house, she saw no evidence of occupancy yet. Surely the commute from the Ministry of Magic to Spinner's End is lengthy and harrowing; why on earth the colleague wouldn't be more centrally located, Hermione could not figure out. Rapping twice on the door, waiting, then twice more, Hermione sighed and conjured from her bag a crinkled piece of paper and pen.

_Apologies for not connecting with you. Books on the porch._

_Thank you for your understanding,_

_Hermione (Ronald's wife)_

She didn't dare write the Weasley name; Hermione could not endure the marital name draped heavily upon her shoulders. Feeling slightly dizzy, and tired, Hermione allowed herself to slump against the wall next to the door of this stranger's house. Looking out into the grey winterscape, down at the very far end of the lane, she saw a dark figure bent against the icy breeze. She snorted at herself, at the certainly pompous idea that flirted in the depths of her imagination. _Snape? Snape alive and walking? _She shook her head. Certainly, she thought, her dizzy head and lack of any nutritional intake was altering her eyesight and sentimentality. Starting to feel nauseous, along with dizzy, pangs of pain vibrated through Hermione's stomach. Letting out a hiss of air, Hermione doubled over. Perhaps she could focus just enough to apparate home, she thought through waves of discomfort. Still leaning against the house, Hermione closed her eyes, both in agony and to aid her focus. She pictured her kitchen, the soft white-brick walls, grey counters and wooden cabinets; her treasured mug, a clay creation Ron attempted to construct, sat cleanly on a dish rack-

Black. Nothing but black.

.

Nearly to the end of the lane, in which his daily promenade was constrained to, Severus noticed a peculiar mass in the street. From his distance, it looked as though a waste-bag had been tossed without an encasing bin. Closer, he noticed distinct colors; certainly not a waste-bag. Closer still, he noticed a mass of hair, a deep red scarf. When he was a meter away, he noticed a faint scent which brought him to his internal knees: blood, blood and something. The mound of hair and scarf was, or had, or is, bleeding. Pulling back his woolen coat sleeves, he tentatively knelt beside the mass. _A pulse_. Turning over the mass, which weighed surprisingly little, Severus straightened in surprise, even in upset. _Granger?_ Her pale complexion and sullen features would, from afar, have made her seem like a resemblance of herself. Yet, close up, Severus knew her distinct pattern of freckles, having seen it for a number of years. Letting out a heavy sigh in agitation, he so badly wanted to leave her. He wanted to remain enclosed and dead and far removed from Hogwarts and all of them, dead and alive. Yet, alerting a medic, Muggle or Wizard, would have her bleeding and freezing for much longer than she could conceivably handle. Swooping, as if he still wore his best robes, Severus lifted the unconscious young woman, and made way back to his residence.

Laying her on his sofa by a large stone fireplace, Severus immediately began stripping Hermione of her wet and cold outer-garments. Once removed, only a soft cream pullover and dark jeans remained. However, her jeans, he found, were saturated with blood, from the thighs and tapering down. However, Severus had no want of removing the young woman's clothing. Casting a cleaning charm, he attempted to eradicate most of the blood. Pulling a thick fur blanket off an armchair, he proceeded to wrap her in it. Straightening up, he gave all his attention over to examining Hermione for any more peculiarities. Once satisfied that her bleeding had all but stopped, and that she needed warmth and rest, Severus slipped away to brew a strong pot of tea.


	2. Concerto

While the kettle whistled, Severus reviewed what possibilities would have Granger unconscious and bleeding from her lower half. Certainly, though not absolutely, she couldn't have been assaulted by a hex. True, her status in the Wizarding World is large; she and the Weasley boy had, with Potter, become famous figures in the abolishment of the Dark Lord and his followers, as well as making huge efforts to rebuild and restructure the Wizarding World's ways of political and educational conduct. True, any wizard or witch from near-birth to near-death would recognize her, but surely no pureblood uprisers would have the gall to attack her in the middle of a Muggle neighborhood.

A soft sigh, a rustling of blankets, stirred Severus from his anxious thoughts. With kettle in hand, Severus tore himself from the kitchen and settled into a dark leather armchair across from the unconscious figure of post-war and the modern Wizarding World. The clock in the hall, older than himself and his family house, struck eleven. Lighting in his living room grew dimmer and dimmer; Severus swiftly knelt to stoke his fire. As he came back around to his chair, he stopped by the still unconscious woman, checking her pulse, as well as her blankets for more blood. _No new blood, good._

.

Severus did not remember falling asleep; he did not remember the fire dying, nor the clock striking, nor the tea running cold. He could not remember why or how he had fallen asleep in the downstairs of his home, with a book on his chest and slumped in his well-worn armchair. He woke with a start, at the sound of a much more conscious groan. _Granger._ He straightened, pushing a curtain of hair from his face. _Granger. _A wave of agitation came over him; he is discovered, his secret is up. That nosy, know-it-all girl, _woman_, would surely pull the blanket off of his head and smoke him out of his solitary life. _Granger._

Leaning on an elbow, Severus had never, in all his days of schooling and conducting a double-life, seen a face as bewildered as hers. Her other hand went to her neck, feeling for a pulse. "I'm done aren't I? I've finally done it-"  
"Hmm?" Severus inquired, still wiping sleep from his face.  
"_You're_ here. I must be-"  
"Dead, Granger?" Severus snapped, softly; he suppressed the hurt in his throat. She nodded. "It might interest you to know," Severus continued, sighing, "that I am, unfortunately, very much alive-"  
"How? How could you possibly be? We watched you-"  
"That's not for now, Mrs. Weas-" Severus started, curtly.  
"No. Don't you dare call me that," Hermione's voice cut into the quiet room with such precision and energy that Severus did, indeed, stop. Severus sighed again, setting his book on an end table. "Do you need medical attention," he asked, casually.  
"Excuse me?"  
"Do you not remember lying in the street, bleeding-"  
"Bleeding?" Hermione grew paler than her already sickly complexion.  
"You couldn't be left in the cold. Medics take ages out here. You were bleeding from-" he eyed her waist and legs. Hermione broke eye contact with the ghost-come-to-life, and anxiously checked under her blanket. She looked back at Severus, tears blinding her; her entire physique shook uncontrollably. Without warning, she leaned over and vomited on the rug below the couch. Severus kept his distance. "What's wrong, Granger? Do you need a medic? Tell me what is wrong," he demanded sternly. "I had-" Hermione started, fighting the urge to wail, "I had—It's gone," she choked, still forcing back a desperate cry. "What's gone?" Severus pressed, "I need to know what's wrong."  
"Mis-" Hermione gulped, "miscarri-"

Severus beat himself internally; how could he not have thought of that. Of course, she was a widow, but she had been married to the Weasley boy for quite a while. Of course she would have been with child; _of course_. Immediately, he turned from her and strode to the kitchen; _glass of water, what else? Think. _Beginning to go through cabinets, Severus searched for a blood-replenishing potion, as well as a calming draught. "Please," Severus said, setting the glass of water, and potions, on the table beside her. "What are they?" Hermione choked.  
"A replenisher and a calming draught; after these you'll need to get to a hospit-"  
"No medics," Hermione whispered, through gulps of water.  
"Granger, don't be an idiot-"  
"_No medics_," Hermione said, more firmly, shaking her head. "It's already done, there's no point-"  
"Fine," Severus sighed, too tired to argue with the stubborn young woman.  
After finishing the potions, Hermione inquired, "do you have a lavatory?"  
"Of course, upstairs-"  
"Thank you, I'll be able to find it," Hermione said, beginning to push her covers off and stand. Weakened, she gripped the side of the couch; Severus stepped over to help her up. "Please," Hermione shook off his firm grip, "I can stand on my own, thank you." She tenderly walked toward the hall, and up the staircase.

.

As Severus cleaned up the bile Hermione had so pleasantly left on the floor, the aggravation in him grew. He was correct, as always; he was better off alone, better off dead to the outside, and to the Wizarding World. Since Ms. Granger did apparently _not_ need any immediate medical attention, Severus readied himself to send her on her way. Somewhere deep inside his stomach a small pang of guilt disturbed him; he had no responsibility to her, and surely shouldn't _care_ about her wellbeing. He'd done his part; he'd sheltered her and made sure she was living. _Nothing more._

At the top of the landing, he heard the all-familiar sound of his bathtub's tap running. As he approached the door, and readied his spindly yet strong hand to knock on the heavy wooden door, he heard a nearly inhuman sound. Under the sound of the rushing water, weeping. Weeping beyond control, weeping beyond breathing and seeing. Severus relaxed his fist, and with outstretched fingers, quietly laid his hand upon the door. He knew that sound, that feeling. He himself had wept like that. Severus thumbed through his own memories of loss, of scars of loss that have not and perhaps never will fully heal. Losing Lily would surely always be his bleeding wound, though he built armor so strong around that pain, he rarely allowed himself to delve into that sadness. However, he could not empathize with the loss of an unborn child; that was a new kind of pain to him. Sure, a small, primitive part of him ached to have a child with Lily, and Harry was yet another reminder that he'd been an abysmal failure, that Lily had given that part of herself to someone else. As if a crystal glass in his heart was pushed off a table and broke, he was pulled back into the present by the lack of sound. Water, weeping had stopped; the only sounds remaining were now the sound of a washcloth being scrubbed along skin.

.

Hermione's first instinct was to run, to dash floo powder into Severus' ancient fireplace and go somewhere, just _away_. The moment she awoke she knew, she felt emptied like a jar. Part of her was overwhelmed with relief; she had never wanted that, at least not so soon. Certainly, she never wanted to raise one on her own. However, a larger part of her sunk deep, deep down into darkness. The last tangible part of Ron himself was gone, and never would be again. Scrubbing dried crimson off herself, Hermione wouldn't dare to let herself imagine a small, red-haired version of herself. _No. Don't. _Submerging herself in the bath, she made use of Severus' shampoo. It smelled clean, as though a storm has just cleared through a forested area. Something in it comforted her.

Once clean, and dry except for her tangled mane, Hermione realized she had no clean clothing, and had no want of putting back on her soiled garments. Pulling a towel modestly and tightly around herself, she quietly opened the door. About to call out, she looked down to find a dated pair of black fleece leggings and a large dark green pullover.

Once dressed, and with slightly drier hair, Hermione set down the stairs. Looking at the clock as she made her way through the hall, it was nearly noon. She briefly checked the living room and kitchen, restraining herself from exploring other rooms of the house. _Gone?_ Perfect, then, for Hermione to slip away without awkwardness or conversation. As she knelt to pull on her boots, the front door opened and collided with her hip. Before she could react, before she hit the dark and creaking wooden floor beneath her, a confident hand pulled her upwards. "Leaving?" Severus asked casually, stepping past her, with a brown sack, and striding toward his kitchen. "Well, yes. I'm of no use to you here. Thank you for looking after-"  
"It was nothing. Any person would have done it," Severus called coldly from the kitchen, "however, if you leave now, you will neglect the dinner I am making this evening. You will have wasted my well-earned income—"

Taking offense to his pushy tone, Hermione opened her mouth to refute his comment. "And," Severus continued, "if you are refusing Muggle medics, then you must allow me to brew you more potions, even you cannot deny that you need them." Unfortunately, Hermione had to agree with him. She did, genuinely, not want to go to a hospital. Her last memory of one was identifying Ron's drunken corpse, after he'd fallen into the street and been hit by a late night metro. Additionally, she could barely contain her curiosity; she did have so many questions about Snape's near-death, why he was here and how no one had interacted with him in seven years. Slowly she pulled off a boot. "I'll stay, but only because I am too tired to trek back," Hermione said curtly, not wanting to peel back her layers of stoicism. She heard a faint snort from the kitchen. Quietly, Hermione circled the living room, noticing a dark door at the far end; she desperately wanted to open it, but feared it could creak. Circling back toward the armchair where Severus had slept, she fingered the old binding of the book he had been reading. _Dante's Divine Comedy_. Hermione snorted; _how Snape_, she thought. She gently picked it up and read from the page he had left off at.

_Soon as I had reach'd the threshold of my second age, and changed my mortal for immortal; then he left me, and gave himself to others. When from flesh to spirit I had risen, and increase of beauty and of virtue circled me, I was less dear to him, and valued less. _

She heard calm footsteps behind her, and the slight chime of china. "Earl Grey," Severus said as he set down a tray. "His steps were turn'd into deceitful ways, following false images of good, that make no promise perfect. Nor avail'd me aught to sue for inspirations, with the which, I, both in dreams of nights, and otherwise, did call him back," Hermione responded. "That has always been a favorite of mine," Severus responded tentatively. Hermione turned, a tender yet guarded smile skirted across her lips, "I've always wanted an old edition like this." Severus studied Hermione's tired, shyly smiling face, and for a moment a warm smile dared to breach his cold exterior. As soon as it did, however, Hermione revoked her kind eyes and shyly returned to the couch she'd slept on, taking up a cup of tea as she did.

"After supper I really must go," Hermione said, after a generous sip. Abruptly, Severus turned away, and went through the door in the back of the living room, shutting the door tightly behind him. After a few moments, he emerged, carefully locking the door behind him. "You should have another dose," Severus stated, seriously, fingering the cork of the flask. Hermione set her cup upon the end table, and took of the flask he had extended to her. Severus stared at her, intently. "What?" Hermione asked in agitation. "I'm just shocked that I've not yet heard a stubborn refutation," Severus said, with a raised brow. "I'm trying to be a polite guest," Hermione bit back. At that, Severus headed toward his kitchen. "Do you need help with preparations?" Hermione called; Severus turned on his heel, and with a raised brow, demanded more than responded, "you will be no help if you collapse again, Ms. Granger," and thus left Hermione to her own devices.

.

Hermione was pleasantly shocked to find that dinner was more than a typical medley of meats and broth. Braised chicken sat delicately atop sliced and roasted potatoes, while greens lined her plate. Dutifully, as if by some long forgotten habit, Severus seated Hermione and scooted her chair in for her. As she sat, awaiting her host, he placed a large glass of whole milk next to her dinner. She snorted in contempt. "I'm not a child, certainly I can have something stronger," she hinted toward the glass of red wine Severus had generously poured himself. "Let's see how you fare with dinner," Severus responded, with a tender sneer. In the back of his mind, he could not help but find himself lingering on the woman sitting across from him; how odd to be dining with a young woman who he'd watched, from afar, grow up. He'd nearly forgotten that she was, indeed, in her early twenties, and was no longer the bobbing teenager that he'd scolded so effortlessly.

Having to admit to herself that the dinner was pleasantly teasing her nose, Hermione felt a pang of hunger for the first time in weeks. Every small bite she took made her salivate more, and to her great chagrin, her glass of milk was delicious and finished before she set down her silverware. Severus, having finished before her, waited patiently, sipping his wine from time to time, and studied her through the candlelight. Hermione could feel his eyes on her; she could not tell if she was self-conscious about eating in front of a near-stranger, or if she was just too shy to return the gaze. Severing her last potato slice into a smaller bite, she broke the silence, "I'm not going to shatter, you know." Severus inhaled deeply, "when one has had serious bodily trauma, one must make sure that they stay-"  
"Please don't talk about my _bodily trauma_," Hermione hissed through her bite of potato. Severus nodded once, in patience; certainly he was biting his tongue. Realizing she was being ungrateful, Hermione swallowed quickly. "Your dining room is very nice, and dark," she said as she set down her fork. "My family was not a strong proprietor of modernity. I'd have less candles if the wiring in the house wasn't faulty," Severus said after another sip of wine. Not able to hold in her curiosity anymore, Hermione let inquiry flood out of her; "h-how exactly are you…here? How did you survive; you were hemorrhaging blood. I saw the look in your eyes-"  
"Another time, Ms. Granger," Severus said decisively, pinching the stem of his wineglass and staring stilly at his burgundy.

.

As the hall clock struck eight, Hermione and Severus found themselves finished with dinner. The calming draught Severus had supplied Hermione with was wearing off, and both of them could tell. In her growing internal agitation, she refused another dose of his potion. Though her stomach was pleasantly full, Hermione could not help but feel sick. Waves of anguish and anxiety repeatedly washed over her. _I must leave. I must get out. I must—_ While Severus cleared the table, and washed the dishes, Hermione silently excused herself to the bathroom. Having completed cleaning, Severus checked the living room, and found nothing. As he walked toward the bathroom, he heard faint coughing and the distinct heaving sound of regurgitation. He knocked twice on the door. It opened in a panic; the flushed face of Hermione collided with his chest. "Are you quite alright?" Severus inquired, gripping Hermione at an arm's length. Hermione could only nod. Taking his thumb, Severus lifted one of her eyelids, exposing her pupil. "Ms. Granger, are you ill?" Hermione shook her head. "Why, then, are you regurgitating in my lavatory?"

"Can't—breathe-" Hermione whispered in short gasps. She leaned heavily upon the doorframe. Severus studied her for what felt like hours; in a decisive swoop, he grasped her shoulders and steadied her knees. Before Hermione was aware of it, she noticed she was being gently, yet firmly, carried down the hall toward another dark wooden door. Whisking open the door, Severus directed his carrying load toward an old and glossy four-poster bed. Grey flannel sheets were encased by a black and green quilt. Pillows with a myriad of patterns lined the headboard. Before Hermione could take in anymore of what was surely Severus' chamber, she found herself lying on the very bed she had just seen. "You must lay still. Keep your head and chest raised like this," Severus adjusted pillows under Hermione. "You're having a severe anxiety attack. The calming draught wore off too quickly-"  
"I'll be alright, really," Hermione argued, attempting to rise off the bed. A firm grip on her shoulders told her otherwise. "Ms. Granger, from first hand experience, you must be still. Focus on breathing." In what felt like one blink, Severus was gone and back with water and another flask. "Drink both," Severus said from across the room, "please." Hermione obliged, reluctantly. "I'm sorry-" she said into the darkness, "I really must go-"  
"Focus on your breathing, Ms. Granger," a strict and serious voice said in the distance.

Hermione could feel first her limbs, then her eyelids grow heavy. She resisted the urge to sleep as much as she could; she needed to get home. She didn't want to burden this man's company anymore than she already had. As her eyes closed, she could sense another presence in this strange room; she could have sworn she felt a hand brush her hair back and linger on her cheek. The same hands guided her under warm, soft sheets that smelled of mint and forests in summer months. The same hands, she could hear, fingering through a book and reading aloud familiar passages from what she recognized as _The Divine Comedy_. The same hands that shyly wiped away what she could have sworn was a timid kiss laid upon her forehead. Though she wished to sense more in her closed-eye, semi-conscious state, sleep was more powerful than her will, and finally she succumbed to slumber.


	3. Andante

**(Readers: Thanks for all the quick support. More updates to follow!)**

It was so faint, so delicate, Severus had scarcely noticed the plain, rose gold wedding band latched onto Hermione's left ring finger. From afar, it could be described as plain. Yet, up close, its simplistic beauty was intriguing and, indeed, resembled something intangible about the young woman wearing it. Her finger, he noticed, also lacked the traditional engagement ring, so many Muggle women wore along with their wedding ring. Certainly they'd had a Magic ceremony, Severus deduced. Studying her sleeping face, Severus found it difficult to picture Hermione in traditional wedding robes, or even in a Muggle wedding gown. He found it harder still, to picture a glowing smile across the now sad and worn bone structure. The quilt rustled; Severus pulled away from his musings, angry with himself that he would indulge in such intimate inquiries.

An old alarm clock, which Severus had had since his teenage years, revealed the hour to be seven and a quarter in the morning. Quietly, he rose and slunk out of his room, leaving the pseudo-stranger in his bed, alone. Once again in the kitchen, he allowed himself to indulge in brewing Turkish coffee; boiling the grounds and water in a pot, Severus neglected to add sugar. He'd never been drawn to sweet foods or drinks; he did not like the idea of enjoying his food through the veil of seductive sugars. After pouring his coffee into a large, gnarled mug, he explored his breast pocket, and extracted his flask of daily potion. Swallowing as quickly as possible, Severus then took a cautious sip of his coffee. Then, perusing his icebox (another modern-technology-neglect of his past family members, though Severus did not mind) he sought eggs, milk, asparagus, intending to make a scramble. Whilst cooking, his narrowed his eyes at the scramble; certainly this breakfast was to his liking, but he had no idea, no guess as to what Granger would want, or even be hungry for. He continued with the scramble, adding to the plate dry bread, a jar of jam, a dish of butter, a banana, a glass of orange juice, a glass of milk, a cup of coffee (watered down, _there's no need to get Granger too excitable_), as well as a cup of Earl Grey. Once satisfied that he'd covered his basis with breakfast foods, he cast a simple, yet effective, culinary-protection charm, so the scramble would not cool nor the milk or juice warm. Fingering his replacement wand, it felt somewhat unnatural in his hand. He'd neglected to use magic for so long, preferring to keep active and busy, a rush of nostalgia came over him. He shook past it. Pocketing the wand, and mug in hand, Severus dressed himself in the accoutrements of winter, and sought to begin his first walk of the day.

.

Hermione awoke to the sound of a door, far in the distance, closing softly, and the sound of habitual stomping off of excess snow. Sitting up, she could not reconcile reality from what was dreamt; she remembered being directed into this room, fighting the feeling of desperate exhaustion, falling asleep. Yet, she could not distinguish if she had felt gentle hands comforting her in her semi- and unconscious states. Looking around the dimly lit room, she observed heavy, dark green curtains shutting out the light from what seemed to be a substantial window. At the foot of the surprisingly comfortable four-poster bed sat a regal-looking, black-stained trunk, locked with a thick, heavy pewter clasp. A wingback, velvet or velveteen, chair, browned with age, seemed dragged forward from the far corner of the room, closer toward the bed. On the arm of the chair, _The Divine Comedy_ was delicately draped. Ah, she'd not dreamt that, then; she remembered the deep, hushed, calming voice reading passages to her. Atop the ragged but polished wood floor laid a traditional fur rug, yet it lacked a head. The quilt she laid under was made up of numerous, small black and green diamonds, making up a faded calligraphy-style "S." The end table to her right held a generous glass of water, which she happily snatched. It also held an alarm clock, as well as a dusty, worn, framed picture. Looking closer, Hermione could see two young, bright faces, smiling into the sun. They were in front of a generic brick, suburban house. Such a youthful picture, Hermione would not have recognized the teenaged, if not younger, Severus, if it wasn't for his shock of black hair. Behind him, piggyback style, the other smiling face was framed in a bright red mane; _Lily?_ The sound of footsteps at the threshold of the bedroom shook her from her quiet observations. "How are you feeling, Ms. Granger?" Severus asked, setting a tray laden with food next to her. "More rested, perhaps," Hermione responded gingerly, making quick and shy eye contact. "There's no need to blush, Gra-"  
"Snape, please. I haven't been your pupil in years. Please, just use my first name," Hermione stated wearily, still nervously looking away from the tall figure standing at her side. Severus sighed, seeming to collect his thoughts; "if you insist on first names, then welcome yourself to use mine."  
"Alright, Severus," his name felt choking to Hermione; how odd and uncomfortable it was to know and interact with someone for so long, and start calling them by a new name.  
"Hermione," Severus said, as rigidly and uncomfortably as Hermione had, "breakfast is served."  
Looking to her side, and scrutinizing the intricately produced meal, Hermione felt plagued with guilt. "I really should leave; I appreciate your help, but I'm sure you're aching to get rid of this unwanted guest," Hermione said hurriedly, pushing the quilt away. "The company is not all unwelcome," Severus responded, with a raised brow, "and I will not permit you to leave until you've put something in your empty system." Glancing at the food, which admittedly looked delicious, and back at Severus, she frowned. "Why do you," she sighed, "why are you caring for me? Why care at all?" At this, Severus nearly chuckled, though he did not allow himself to be that unreserved. "Ms.—Hermione, we are all fated to die. I will not be responsible for another's death," he stopped there, not wanting to explain deeper reasons for his taking her in. He would not let himself divulge the tender spot he'd always had for her, tenderly respecting her headstrong character, and insatiable thirst to be right. He could not unveil the protective streak that took him by surprise, when he saw the long-lost face in front of him. He could not reveal that, really, he did not wish to see her go. Hermione nodded, quietly, considering his words. Reluctantly, she picked up the fork on the tray, and slowly consumed her breakfast.

.

"Come," Severus said, reentering the bedroom, with Hermione's heavy coat and scarf draped over his arm. "Where are we going?" Hermione inquired, through her last bite of scramble, washing it down with milk.  
"You," he said, extending his arm to her, allowing Hermione to pull on her winter trappings, "have scarcely moved in two days. We are going on a walk."  
"_We-_"  
"We."  
"I don't need to be babysat, Severus," Hermione mumbled through her scarf.

"Certainly you don't," Severus agreed, "however, experience shows that you have an unfortunate knack of falling unconscious in the elements, and I refuse to let you out alone-"  
"How chivalrous," Hermione snorted in playful contempt.

The fresh air, Hermione admitted, was a treat to her lungs and face. At the end of the block of brick houses, she repeated her new mantra, "I must go home." Severus nodded, "of course. But permit me a suggestion, Ms.-"  
"_Hermione_-"  
"Hermione," Severus mulled over his words, "allow me to see you home, lest you feel ill again." Hermione listened his suggestion, and attempted to suppress her impatience. A small, deep, dark part of her wanted to remain in the quiet suburb, in the dark old house, with the strange man who felt so different and yet remained the same as he was years ago. "Won't you worry about being recognized? You're a hero-" _Hero_, Severus scoffed internally. Certainly a villain, never a hero; that just couldn't be possible. "There's a portrait of you hanging in the Hogwarts halls," Hermione continued. Something hushed inside Severus, surely Hermione felt well enough to use sarcasm. "Don't mock my death," Severus bit, quietly. Hermione stopped walking. "I'm _not _mocking you. Sn—Severus, you were awarded status as one of the bravest wizards history has known." That was too much for Severus, and he turned away from Hermione, red boiling up in his face. A cold slap hit him in his back. "Turn around," Hermione demanded, childishly. "Did you throw a snowball at me," Severus responded, in a biting, measured tone.  
"I'm not lying to you. Your impact in the Wizarding World was enormous, S-Severus," Hermione said frustrated and earnestly. Considering her words, Severus responded shortly, "very well, we'll apparate."  
"I—I'm not sure I can right now," Hermione mumbled, embarrassed. Severus raised his brow at her. _Of course_. Weakened health greatly rises the risk of being splinched. "Allow me," Severus responded, casually.  
"You wouldn't be able to picture my-"  
"An address, Ms.- Hermione"  
"Right," Hermione nodded.

.

At her doorstep to she and Ron's flat cradled in London near Diagon Alley, stretched tall grey brick, and a shining red door. Swiftly, Hermione turned the key and pushed into the house, not desiring to be seen by any neighbors or concerned friends. As she walked in, she stepped on a pool of letters; she sighed. Walking farther into her entry hall, after collecting the thick mound of letters, she turned. "Are you coming in?" she called to the man whose back was toward her. He turned abruptly. "Are we not parting ways, here?" he questioned with a shy grimace. "I can make you tea before you go. It's the least I could do-"  
Silently, Severus turned into the hall, closing the door behind him.

_Harry, Ginny, Molly, Harry, Harry, bills, Harry… _Most of her letters were delivered by hand, not by post; a pang of guilt shot through her heart. She knew Harry and the Weasleys, her dutiful extended family, were perhaps worried, considering she left without notice, and had not returned in a while. However, another feeling crept up in her,_ anger?_ She felt smothered; she did not need to be babysat. No matter how much company she had with the Weasleys and Harry, it would not bring Ron back. She set the mail on the edge of the kitchen counter. "Please, sit," she motioned Severus toward a sitting room off the kitchen; bookshelves lined the walls, while the remaining walls held towering, old windows. Her house was bright, not overwhelmingly so. As she put the kettle on, Severus paced the walls stacked high with books, old books, new books, fiction, nonfiction, magic, muggle, cooking… "Ron wasn't much for reading," Hermione stated, shyly smiling. She set a quaint mug in front of Severus. "I would've thought you'd be closer to his home," Severus said, casually. "No," Hermione said through a gulp of tea, "His work at the ministry-" Severus nodded, breaking off the conversation. "Please, excuse me," Hermione said, relatively pleasantly.

As she entered their, _her_, bedroom, she felt drowned in memory; their many nights under that colorful quilt, the many muggle pictures on the walls, their times in love, their times spent arguing over Ron's drinking, Hermione's concern for him.

Severus tentatively wandered toward the back of the flat, finding a door ajar, and Hermione sitting quietly on the edge of a large, plush bed.  
"Why couldn't I help him?" Hermione whispered at her hands.  
"Hermione?" Severus asked, tentatively.  
"How—how could he abandon me?" Hermione choked quietly.  
"Abandon you?" Severus asked again, tentatively. "May I," Severus motioned toward a section of the bed next to Hermione; she nodded.  
Severus calmly cleared his throat, "I am confident he did not mean to abandon you-"  
"Then why am I _alone_" Hermione pressed, her measured tone concealing the urge to weep.

"You're not alone, Hermione," Severus said quietly, seriously, not daring to look at her. She looked up at him, studying his profile. What once she thought was greasy hair, angrily pale skin, and harsh eyes, there was something much more tender; guarded, but tender. His hair was glossy, not greasy. His skin pale from years spent in the dungeons and in libraries; his eyes, dark but not as harsh as they were. Though something was still closed in them, Hermione did not feel scrutinized when they turned to look at her; looking closer, she found shocks of grey against the dark, dark brown.

"I don't think," Hermione inhaled, calming herself and keeping tears at bay, "I don't think I can stay here," a tear trickled out and down her cheek, to her great dismay. Severus observed her flushed and dismayed features, considering what his next words would possibly mean for he, for her. "You're welcome to stay with me. Your company would not be unwelcome," Severus said, steadily, calmly. Hermione nodded in consideration, tears spilling out, beyond her control. Her face became more flushed with embarrassment, she sat across from Severus, with no barrier of stoicism to hide behind. She closed her eyes, attempting, without success, to calm herself. As she did, she felt a tender grip on her cheek, and a soft cloth methodically running across her face. She opened her eyes when most of her tears had subsided. Something in Severus' grey, dark eyes seemed to open and release. _I know_, they seemed to say to her. She let her back relax, leaning into his chest. At first, Severus stiffened, not knowing quite how to handle her physical reaction. After a moment of consideration, he gently enclosed his arms around her, and let her calm herself before they left.


	4. Waltz

**(Readers: It came to my attention that I posted the wrong version of this chapter. Sorry for any confusion or upset.)**

"What day is it?" Hermione called into the hall, as she hastily stuffed an assortment of muggle clothing, as well as a hairbrush and a small, cherished bottle of perfume, into a canvas bag.  
"The ninth,"  
"The _ninth_ already? The ninth of January, isn't that your birthday?" Hermione pressed, tentatively. Severus let out a heavy sigh, "How would you possibly know when I was born, Granger-"  
"Hermione-"  
"Hermione."  
"You're a hero; your birth-date is practically public domain," Hermione said, in a familiar know-it-all tone. Severus bristled at the thought of thousands of strangers having access to intimate details about his person. "Won't you celebrate," the young woman's voice inquired, pulling him from his thoughts. Severus snorted, "no." Hermione emerged from the room, bag in hand, smiling modestly at the rigid man standing in front of her. "Of course not. You don't seem like you've celebrated a birthday in your entire life-" As she said it, something shut in Severus' face. "What did I say?" she inquired anxiously. "Before your time, Ms. Granger, I _did_ celebrate. I've since stopped," Severus snapped.  
"Her-"  
"_Hermione_, yes." With that, Severus strode toward the front door, and with his back to Hermione, extended his arm and awaited her to grip his elbow. Humbly, Hermione slunk behind Severus, and shyly gripped his stiff arm.

.

With a hard thump, they landed next to the hall clock in Severus' dark home. "Severus?" Severus looked sideways at the pink-faced young woman. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"  
"It's fine," Severus spit out, striding hurriedly to the door in the back of the living room. With a click, he locked himself behind the mysterious door. Hermione stood, for quite a while, in the hall, puzzled at everything. How has fate played its hand; how has she found herself in Severus' most intimate places? And why, _why_ was he not turning her out into the cold? Satisfied that Severus refused to emerge from the mystery-room any time soon, Hermione crept into the kitchen.

Pulling open cabinets, Hermione was relieved to find old, but undamaged, bags of sugar, flour, as well as eggs, butter, and cream in the icebox. Squaring her shoulders, Hermione organized her ingredients, and began adding them into a large bowl.

.

Severus sat in his dark study-come-lab, in which bookshelves lined all the walls, and centers in the room was a heavy table and bench, holding high-end potion-making materials. A cabinet at the far end of the room held rare and common ingredients. Because it crawled behind the living room, the study also had a fireplace, mirroring the one in the living room, and sharing the same chimney. Two light-brown, leather wingback chairs sat facing one another. Running his hand along the spines of books, organized first by category and second alphabetically, Severus stopped at an uncommonly large muggle book, _Physicians' Desk Reference._ Carefully, he tugged it from the shelf. Inside, the pages were painstakingly hollowed out, forming a makeshift box. Severus tenderly set it on his lap, and picked up the pieces of paper inside. A torn letter, in which Lily had signed her love to another person; pictures of their youth together, before he lost her. One such picture contained a birthday cake; his twelfth birthday, to be exact. He traced his forefinger over her face; the picture contained Lily, holding a sloppily made chocolate cake out to him. He'd found a camera in a hall closet, as a boy, and began taking pictures. Severus could hear her excited giggle; the cake was a surprise. He could hear her singing happy birthday, while snow quietly fell; they had met in the meadow outside their neighborhood, though it was the middle of winter. He could feel the childish kiss planted on his cheek— A knock at the door forced him to close the book and put it away. "Please, Severus, open the door," Hermione timidly called from the other side of the door. As she started to turn away in defeat, Severus whipped open the door, startling Hermione. "Not a birthday cake. A thank you cake," Hermione said shyly, nodding toward the dining table.  
"A thank you cake, Hermione?" Severus sighed; being disturbed from such a deep moment of contemplation left him with a fast and agitated pulse.  
"Thank you, for—for understanding," Hermione stole a shy glance into Severus' eyes, and quickly averted her gaze to the fireplace.  
"Just don't sing anything," Severus demanded through gritted teeth. "No, no, of course not," Hermione agreed, her face relaxing into a delicate smile.

.

Had someone told Hermione that, not only would see be sharing a bottle of wine with Severus Snape and conversing with ease, but that something tender in her was growing for the strange, rigidly mysterious man, she would have needed restraints from hexing the predictor. However, lounging in Severus' living room, a fire projecting dancing light onto the walls, red-faced and discussing literature and Wizard-politics, Hermione felt at ease. The anguish which solidified in her felt as though, slowly but surely, or perhaps just in flashes, it was melting away.

When Severus excused himself, Hermione found herself once again exploring his living room. In the past days, she had failed to notice a cherry-colored record player organized into the corner of the room. Leaving her seat by the fire, she quietly sifted through records stacked on the shelf underneath the player. _Bach, Schubert, Wagner._ Hermione traced the spine of _Chopin's Waltzes_, and in a decisive turn, un-sleeved the record and set the record to play Chopin's Waltz No.10 in B Minor, Op.69. Music starting just as Severus came down the stairs, Hermione looked toward him, apologetically. "I haven't listened to Chopin in ages," Hermione said softly, not wanting to disturb the music. Severus replaced himself in the armchair across from Hermione; both sat in silence, listening to the music. Severus watched Hermione study his face, her eyes constantly falling toward his neck. "How, Severus?" Hermione whispered, staring at the scarf concealing his wound.  
"I don't know," he responded, hushed but strongly, "For years, I wanted to pass on. I was ready. Perhaps this is my punishment, to go on living," he continued, more to himself than to his guest. Hermione sat silently; only faint breaths gave her presence away. He frowned; "when you and Potter left me, someone—I don't know nor care who, came to me in my unconscious state and tried to seal my wounds, and administered a rare anti-venom, which kept me on the cliff of death. They weren't a medic, or were unprepared if they were, because I awoke where I thought I was going to die. Since I was far enough away from the rest of the—the action, I apparated home-" A gentle snort broke him from his tangent. Hermione, frozen, staring at him, openly wept. Severus cleared his throat, "Hermione?"  
"I—I didn't know you'd wanted to die for so long-"  
A pit grew in Severus' stomach; the feeling of soft, strong, fast hands, _her _hands. A gentle voice calling from far away to tell him to relax and swallow; _her_ voice. Her cotton scarf, so bloodied it had been unrecognizable, had permitted his bleeding to tentatively stop.  
"I didn't know if you would live. I couldn't leave you live that, _looking _like that, with no one-" she choked, "I'm so sorry I've done this. I didn't realize-"  
Severus, staring at her tearstained face full of earnest, honest apology, stepped across the room and settled next to her. Taking her shoulders, he pulled her into his chest; cradling her head under his chin, he softly whispered into her tangle of hair, "do not feel guilty, Hermione; do not feel bad. I would expect nothing less from you, clever girl."

With the steady beat of his heart against her ear, Hermione slowly calmed. "Why the want of dying," Hermione tentatively questioned into Severus' chest. "Hmm?" Severus responded, reluctantly releasing her from his encompassment. "Die. Why die?" Hermione repeated, frowning at him with concern. "Many reasons, Hermione."  
"What, specifically?" she continued, knowing, assuming, a large majority of his answer would concern Lily. "For another time," Severus said, hushed. Hermione continued to frown stubbornly. "Do you still feel—do you still want-"  
"To die?"  
"Do you?" Hermione asked, tensely waiting for his answer.  
"No," Severus responded softly, looking away from her and toward the fire. Hermione nodded, considering his answer.

The record stopped playing, and with the fire dying, the only sounds remaining in the room were their breathing in unison and the quiet calls of the fire diminishing. Severus remained still, watching the low fire; Hermione studied his profile, his harsh, scowling brow, his intense eyes and intent mouth, moving with thought. Hermione did not fully know what she was did next, nor did she care to stop and examine her actions. Straightening up, she leant in and gently kissed Severus left cheek, then his right cheek, and finally his forehead. "Hermione-" Severus sighed gently; a hint of sadness could nearly be detected, "_Hermione_." Her face flushed with red, boiling blood; it rushed into her ears and beat out all other sounds. Severus looked at her closely with a knitted brow. Hermione's heart beat so persistently, she could feel her pulse ready to shake out of her. Hesitantly taking his forefinger and thumb, Severus softly tilted her chin toward him, repeating the gestures Hermione has laid upon his face. With blood still rushing in her ears and coursing through her face, Hermione lifted her hand toward Severus' face, gently tracing his lips with her thumb. "Hermione," Severus hummed, taking her palm in him hands and laying gentle kisses upon her fingers, "I do not want to disappoint you."

Hermione swallowed hard. "H—How would you disappoint me?" she whispered. "Let's discuss that another time," Severus coaxed a small, reassuring smile onto his face. "It's very late. Are you tired?" Severus inquired gently. Hermione nodded, staring at her lap. Before she could tense, Severus confidently, gently, lifted her, striding toward the stairs and then to the room, his room. Hermione let herself relax in his arms, leaning her forehead against his chest.

.

Intertwined, together on the bed, Severus laid still as Hermione dozed in the early hours of the morning. She had asked him to stay; he had not wanted to leave. They didn't talk much; they laid in each other's arms, letting their breathing fill the room with hushed sound. He had run his hand gently through her hair until she fell asleep. Even now, she seemed to cling to him, as if she feared that even in her dreams he might slip away from her. Her forwardness had both scared and relieved him. Severus knew there were feelings beyond that of respect, which he had ignored for years after the end of the war. He'd shaken her out of his thoughts, and distanced himself from any place or action that would recall in him a sense of her overwhelming ache to be right and to parade her cleverness. Though, in his innermost thoughts, he'd briefly fantasized about seeing her from afar, seeing her happy and doing well. He did not quite know what it was about Hermione, now, that stirred something deep in his heart. Even so, he feared to reveal anything more than what she might reveal to him; he didn't dare lose her now.


End file.
